


As Cold as the Winter Is

by esoterica



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Apocalypse, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4521414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esoterica/pseuds/esoterica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-apocalyptic world, Stiles makes a deal with Peter Hale to save the world - or his dad and Beacon Hills, at least. </p><p>Somewhere along the way, the terms of that deal change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that at the start of the fic many canon characters are already dead or out of the picture (no "on screen" death).
> 
> Many thanks to those that encouraged me along the way (:

_Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear._

~Ambrose Redmoon

 

There was an unmistakable crisp sharpness in the air as Stiles jogged across what had once been the parking lot of his high school. It heralded more snow, only a few days after the last fall had finally thawed. Stiles took a moment to stop and look around, checking for signs of any life - human or otherwise - in the vicinity, but he couldn't see anything. Which didn't mean there wasn't anything to see, but Stiles was banking on them having a few hours yet before the werewolves returned. Time enough to do what he wanted to do.

Somehow the foundations of the buildings had remained intact when everything else had long since vanished and Stiles could trace out the layout of the school and overlay the few months of memory he had of the place onto the forlorn remnants. Nature had started to reclaim the site; weeds grew up through the floor tiles and brambles were starting to encroach on the perimeter. In a year or two, assuming the weather didn't change again, there might be nothing left to see.

Stiles made his way across the school, keeping an eye out for any signs of movement in the woods to either side, until he reached a long, shallow mound, on the far side of what had once been the gym; a mound that was starting to look like it had been there forever. Purple flowers were growing on it now, somehow surviving through the endless winter.

"Hey, Scott," Stiles said, crouching down at the side of the mound. He'd never bothered to mark the exact position of where Scott's body lay; it wasn't something he was ever going to forget. "It's going to snow again."

He pressed his hand against the packed earth. He knew it was only his imagination and wishful thinking that there was any kind of connection to Scott like this but it helped to pretend there was.

"They're coming back, dude. The werewolves. I wish you were here and then again I don't, because, hey, werewolves, and I think you'd have wanted to see werewolves, right? But they're probably going to kill everyone in Beacon Hills; well, everyone who's left. Which is not good." Stiles rubbed his other hand against his cheek. The cold wind was making his exposed skin feel raw. "Maybe it's not so bad. We'll get to see each other again, I guess. You are never going to let me forget you got to see the afterlife first. Hey, I hope it's warmer over there. You would not believe how cold it is here now."

Which reminded Stiles of the main reason he'd left the compound against his father's strict instructions.

"Ok, gotta go. I have to collect some firewood. No one's been out of the compound for days and my dad's sick again, and you know he was never gonna listen to what I say and take it easy. So see you soon, dude." Stiles got awkwardly to his feet and winced. The temperature had dropped at least 10° in just a few minutes. "One way or the other."

Usually when he came out here Stiles took the time to say hi to a few of the others: to Mrs Ellis, who'd lived across the street; to Lydia, his childhood crush; to Dr Stanley, who'd set Stiles' broken arm when he was seven. And all the others; too many to count. But there was no time to waste today, and Stiles headed off towards the tree line, intending to collect as much firewood as he could before it started to snow. Or before his dad noticed he was gone, whichever came first. In the event, though, he got all of twenty paces before his dad, flanked by one of his deputies, emerged from the trees. Stiles took one look at his dad's furious face and bit back on a remark about wearing a bell.

"Hey, Dad," he said instead, waving cheerfully.

"Stiles," his dad said flatly. "What are you doing out here?"

"You know, just looking around. Walking around." Stiles gestured in the general direction of the school. "A little bit of nostalgia."

His dad's face darkened. "What did I say about leaving the compound?"

"Well, I thought-"

"I gave specific and detailed instructions that no one, and that includes you, Stiles, was to leave the compound. _No one_. For any reason."

" _You're_ out here," Stiles pointed out. He saw the look on his dad's face and quickly added, "Hey, remember when California was warm?"

"That was before Yellowstone went stratospheric," the deputy - Parrish - said. The Sheriff gave him a thunderous look in turn and he shrugged. "It's true."

"This is not the time, or the place, to be discussing the weather,” the Sheriff said heavily. “Stiles, you will go home. Right now. We are doing a perimeter sweep and then everyone is going to stay in the compound."

"And then what? We just going to wait for the werewolves to come in and kill us all?" Stiles would never have said it out loud within the compound. His dad had stepped up to become the leader of their ragtag band of survivors and that meant he had to command their respect; Stiles would never undermine him by questioning him in front of the others.

"We’d be crazy to fight them," Parrish said. "You know what happens to humans who fight them."

"We've only heard stories," Stiles argued. "Maybe there's a way. Or we could run away. Running away would be good.”

“We _could_ fight them, but we’re not going to,” the Sheriff said. “I’m not taking that risk with your life and the lives of everyone in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles bit his lip. He knew his dad was right. They could prepare for ten years and still be outgunned by a pack of werewolves who could run faster and fight longer and survive just about anything except being cut in half. “We can still run away though. Get everyone together and just go.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” his father said exasperatedly.

Stiles raised his hands in defeat. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this exact same argument. ”Ok, ok, I'll go home. Just let me collect some firewood-"

" _No_ , Stiles."

"I will be there and back before you know it-"

"Go. Home."

"Fine," Stiles said resignedly. "I'm going. Be careful, ok?"

"Don't worry about me; you just stay inside." His dad gave him a searching look. "Promise me, Stiles."

"I'm hearing you."

" _Promise_ me, Stiles."

"Yes, okay I promise," Stiles said. "I will go home and I will stay inside, freezing my ass off-"

"Stiles-"

"But not going outside. Definitely not going outside."

For at least an hour, he added mentally as his dad coughed, a deep, hacking cough that had Parrish looking at him worriedly. He could go home, head out again, gather some firewood, and be back before his dad returned. And then it wouldn't matter, because he'd have a fire burning and his dad could come home to a warm meal for the first time in three days and his anger at Stiles' disobedience would be muted by the satisfaction of a full belly.

***

 

The Stilinskis lived at the northern end of the compound, close to the earth embankment that had been built up around the houses. It made it easier for Stiles to go unnoticed as he snuck away from the house, heading directly for the embankment and the forest beyond. He didn't think anyone would see him go - there were only a few hundred people left in Beacon Hills and they all had better things to do than watch him come and go. The tension in the compound had been palpable for days, ever since one of the scouts had returned with the grim news that the wolves were less than ten miles to the east.

Not for a moment had any of them thought Beacon Hills would go unnoticed, but as the months passed with no sign of the wolves returning some had dared to hope that they might go unwanted.

Once he was over the embankment and down the other side Stiles turned up the collar of his jacket and sped up his pace. He didn't want to linger outside the compound any longer than he had to. The sooner he collected some firewood and got back the better - even if the wolves didn't come today it would probably snow again soon.

Stiles could remember walking in this stretch of woodland as a child. His mother would take him to a nearby park on a Wednesday afternoon, and she would buy ice cream for them both and they would walk under the trees, bathed in dappled sunlight. She would sing to him sometimes, as they walked. There was a song she’d taught him, about the sun, that Stiles couldn’t remember now.

Stiles could just about remember what the sun looked like, if he tried.

He started collecting fallen branches, wet for the most part, but with some dryer kindling buried underneath. Stiles figured it would burn well enough once he had a fire established. He soon had a good armful of firewood and was about to head for home when suddenly and without warning an icy chill went down his spine that had nothing to do with the impending snow.

There was a werewolf watching him, not thirty feet away. It had been a while since Stiles had seen a werewolf - eighteen months, give or take - but there could hardly be any mistaking what he was looking at. Stiles took an involuntary step backwards as his heart rate spiked.

The werewolf smiled, showing teeth. _Fangs_.

Stiles ran. The firewood was forgotten, thrown aside in his frantic haste to get back to the relative safety of the compound. He didn't bother yelling for help - that was a waste of valuable oxygen he could be using to run away. He got all of ten feet before someone cannoned into him from the side, something heavy and snarling and _oh fuck another werewolf_ , and Stiles went down hard, the breath knocked out of him as he landed heavily on the forest floor.

Suddenly everything was very quiet. Stiles had a mouthful of mud and twigs and he couldn't hear anything over his pounding heartbeat but he was aware of a distinct lack of fangs and claws and he risked a quick glance over his shoulder and immediately wished he hadn't because there were at least ten werewolves standing watching him and Stiles knew he was well and truly fucked.

Except, they weren't attacking him. Stiles eventually rolled cautiously onto his back, wincing as pain lanced up his right arm, which had taken the brunt of his fall. Stiles didn't think it was broken but it hurt like hell.

The werewolves were still watching him. None of them were moving, which Stiles supposed was a good thing. They just … watched.

Stiles levered himself up onto his elbows. If he was going to die, he wasn’t going to do it lying on his back in a forest. He risked a glance around, looking for an escape route, but even the most cursory glance told him that no such route existed. With their speed and reflexes, they’d be on him before he’d covered ten paces.

“Hey,” he said instead. “How’s it going?”

One of the werewolves bared his teeth. There were a lot of teeth. Stiles swallowed.

“Not one for talking, huh? That’s okay, not everyone has the gift of speech. Maybe you’d like to communicate with me through some kind of mime, or maybe by just walking away.”

“Speech certainly doesn’t seem to be a problem for you.”

Stiles blinked as a couple of the werewolves surrounding him shuffled aside to make way for a newcomer, a man who walked towards Stiles with the easy confidence of someone who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed and whose face was horrifically scarred on one side. And if Stiles had thought the other werewolves were watching him intently, they had nothing on this guy. He stared at Stiles like he was reading all the dark, dirty secrets hidden away in the corners of Stiles’ soul.

Stiles instinctively started to shuffle away on his elbows but stopped abruptly as the other werewolves started to growl. The man - Stiles was pretty sure he was a werewolf too but he wasn’t wolfed out - stopped a few feet in front of Stiles and smiled in a way that terrified Stiles more than anything else that had happened so far.

“It seems you have plenty to say.”

“I- you know what, nothing I have to say is of any interest to you guys.” Stiles eyed a small gap that had appeared between two of the werewolves. “Why don’t I just go, and you can get on with whatever it is you’re doing today.”

“He’s from Beacon Hills,” a female werewolf said.

The man rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Of course he’s from Beacon Hills. The question is, what is he doing out here, today of all days?”

“I’m collecting firewood,” Stiles supplied helpfully, and immediately wish he hadn’t when one of the other werewolves started growling again.

“How helpful of you,” the man said. He looked down at Stiles again and something about the tilt of his head sparked a memory in Stiles, a memory that was old now but still crystal-clear in his mind.

“You’re Peter Hale,” he blurted out.

Hale - because it was him, Stiles had no doubts about that - just smiled. “Yes, I am.”

“Shit,” Stiles mumbled.

The last time he’d seen Peter Hale, the werewolf had been riding in the passenger seat of a car as the werewolves cleared out of Beacon Hills, leaving the remaining humans to clear up the mess they’d left behind. In the months that followed they’d heard a few things about the Hale family from Scott’s father, but after- after that line of communication had ceased they hadn’t heard any more and Beacon Hills had been left to its own devices.

Until now.

Stiles decided he was well and truly screwed.

“Bring him,” Hale ordered.

Two of the wolves moved in to get hold of Stiles and drag him to his feet. Stiles yelped as the werewolf on his right held his injured arm a little too tightly but they ignored his protests. Hale was already walking away.

Whatever hopes Stiles might have had about this being some sort of small-scale scouting party were quickly dashed as he was half-led, half-dragged through the forest. There were more werewolves waiting on the other side of a low ridge, grouped casually around a couple of hand-drawn carts piled high with crates. One of the werewolves, a tall, anaemic-looking man, detached himself from the group and strode towards Hale.

"You found us something to eat?" he demanded belligerently. "Or a new chew toy?"

"Hardly," Hale said. He sounded almost bored and he was turning to one of the other werewolves almost before he had finished speaking. "Aila, take three of your boys and circle round to the south, in case there's any ... foolish resistance. The rest of you, with me."

"What about this?" one of the werewolves holding Stiles asked.

"Throw him in the cart," Hale said curtly.

The werewolves holding him apparently took that literally, because Stiles found himself propelled gracelessly into the back of one of the carts, landing hard on his injured arm. Pain lanced up to his shoulder, sharp and bright, and Stiles could only brace himself as best he could against the crates, arm cradled to his chest, as the cart began to move. He didn’t even consider trying to jump down - if nothing else, werewolves were running either side of the cart, alert and watchful. He wouldn’t get more than a few steps, even if he managed to somehow get down from the cart with the use of only one arm.

Stiles quickly realised that they were heading directly for Beacon Hills. The werewolves didn’t bother with subtlety - even if the remaining humans in the town bothered to put up some resistance they were no real threat and the werewolves knew it. As they emerged from the tree line and started dropping down towards the town, Stiles took a moment to wish that he’d been able to convince his dad of the brilliance of his plan for booby-trapping the approaches to the town; it felt like abject surrender to simply let the wolves walk in and take over.

“Nice little town,” the werewolf walking closest to the cart sneered. “Wrapped up all nice for us.”

 _Fuck you_ , Stiles thought. The pain from his arm made it difficult to think of a snappy comeback and he settled for a glare instead.

The werewolf looked at Stiles and laughed mockingly, showing his teeth. He had particularly sharp-looking teeth. “Maybe we can have some fun with you later, little rabbit.”

“You’re not exactly my type,” Stiles said past gritted teeth.

The werewolf closed in, until he was close enough to take hold of Stiles’ ankle in a punishingly tight grip. He was a big guy, bigger than Hale, and he reeked of blood and death. Stiles swallowed nervously.

“You think we give a fuck what your _type_ is?” the werewolf hissed. “I’ll rip you to shreds myself, when I’m done with you.” For emphasis, he let his claws come out, just enough to prick Stiles’ skin.

"Leave him, Til," one of the other werewolves grunted. "Not enough of him to be worth playing with."

The claws retracted, and Stiles dared to breathe out a little as Til released his hold on his ankle. He moved away, but not as far as Stiles would have liked, and he kept looking at Stiles, like he was already imagining which of Stiles' limbs he'd rip off first.

The cart slowed. Stiles looked around as much as he dared and realised first that they were at the gates of the compound and then that the gates were open, because the cart kept moving. The werewolves walking around the cart were alert but didn't look threatened, and Stiles inwardly cursed his dad's refusal to ambush them all over again.

Once again the cart slowed but this time it came to a halt and Stiles was unceremoniously dragged from it by his collar and dumped on the ground, mostly hidden from view for the moment behind a cluster of werewolves. He could see a loose semi-circle of townsfolk, and Peter Hale, who had walked forward to address-

-his dad. Stiles scrambled forward, crawling between the legs of the werewolves in front of him so he could see and hear better.

“There will be no resistance," Hale was saying.

"No resistance," his dad agreed. He looked tired and he sounded like the words were leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Something in Stiles' stomach twisted at the sight of him. His dad had prided himself on keeping Beacon Hills safe, on keeping its residents together and – mostly – in harmony, and now he was effectively grovelling to a werewolf to bargain for their continued existence.

"I can assure you that any resistance will be ... dealt with," Hale continued smoothly. "Swiftly." He turned to look at the assembled crowd. "I hope everyone understands that."

It all happened so quickly Stiles didn't have time to think or even fully process what his eyes were seeing. He just saw the woman lunging at Hale, saw his dad instinctively move forward to intervene, saw Hale start to shift, and was on his feet and half way across the impossibly huge distance between them before he could think better of it. He made it all of six feet before he went crashing to the ground under the weight of two snarling werewolves and only the fact that he had no breath left in his lungs stopped him screaming in agony as the impact jolted his injured arm all over again. Dimly he heard his dad calling his name and he wanted to respond, wanted to reassure him that he was ok, but he couldn't move or speak or breathe. He could only wait for the inevitable death, claws and fangs and blood.

Except there was none of that - no claws, no fangs, no crushing weight on him. Just pain, and Peter Hale standing over him. The werewolf looked amused, which was somehow more terrifying than anger would have been.

"Stiles!" his dad yelled again, and Stiles realised that one of the other werewolves was holding his dad back.

"I'm ok," he wheezed, trying to convey somehow to his dad that this wasn’t worth dying over. "I'm ok."

"Well," Hale said quietly. "Isn't this interesting?" He looked from Stiles to his father. "The Sheriff's son."

“I don’t even know him,” Stiles said quickly but Hale ignored him, turning instead to his dad and saying:

“He _is_ your son?”

“Yes,” Stiles’ dad said at once. He made an abortive movement towards Stiles but the werewolf holding him easily caught him back. “He is.”

“Interesting,” Hale said again. Then he seemed to dismiss Stiles from his thought process entirely: his voice was sharper, more commanding, as he addressed the assembled humans. “We’ll be taking over the former premises of the First & Central bank. You can continue to run your operations from the Sheriff’s station and remain in your homes. A curfew will be in operation during the hours of darkness and I suggest it would be extremely unwise for anyone to break that curfew for any reason.”

Silence greeted his words, although Stiles was pretty sure his audience had plenty of things they wanted to say.

“I’m sure I don’t have to go into details about what would happen if there were to be any … _problems_ ,” Hale continued. “I would prefer to avoid those, however.”

“There won’t be any problems,” Stiles’ dad said tightly. “No one’s going to cause trouble.” He looked meaningfully at Stiles as he spoke and by the twitch of Hale’s lips he hadn’t missed it.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Hale turned with the same economy of movement Stiles had noticed earlier and addressed the werewolves. “Get the carts unloaded.” He spared a brief glance for Stiles. “And bring that one.”

“No!” Stiles’ dad yelled in almost perfect unison with Stiles’ strangled protest. It made no difference: one of the werewolves seized hold of Stiles and slung him over his shoulder in what was possibly the least dignified moment of Stiles’ life to date. New pain lanced up his arm but Stiles was almost oblivious to the discomfort as he desperately tried to look for his dad amidst the sounds of a scuffle. He struggled and twisted in the werewolf’s hold, prompting a flood of muffled curses before he was abruptly tipped back onto his feet. Stiles had just about enough time to see that his dad was on the ground, on his knees, before everything went dark and he knew no more.

***

 


	2. Chapter 2

His skull was fractured. It had to be fractured; there was no other explanation for the pain Stiles was in. This was easily the worst headache he'd ever had, and that included the time Scott had pushed him off the swing when they were eight and Stiles had smacked his forehead against the seat as he fell. There was nausea, too, and his throat burned like he'd already been sick. Stiles lay as still as he possibly could and miserably waited to die.

He didn't die though. He drifted in and out of consciousness for what felt like forever, sometimes waking up only for a few moments but increasingly for longer and longer periods of time. Sometimes there were people around him, hands on his forehead, voices somewhere overhead. None of the voices sounded familiar. And finally, finally Stiles opened his eyes and his head only hurt a little.

He was lying in a bed. Not his bed, but a human bed that had obviously been taken from someone's home and brought into the bank where the werewolves had established their base. The room he was in must have been an office of some kind at some point in the distant past; now it was a strangely homely bedroom. Aside from the bed, there was a wardrobe, a desk and chair, and a comfortable-looking armchair over by the window. Stiles wasn't exactly sure what to make of it all, and he was still thinking it over when the door opened and a girl walked in.

Stiles made an abortive attempt to pull the bed covers up higher but the girl gave him a deeply unimpressed look and crossed to the window to tweak the curtain and let a little bit more light into the room. She looked familiar but Stiles couldn't immediately place her.

"You're awake. How do you feel?"

"Like I've been hit over the head." Stiles was startled by how croaky his voice sounded.

The girl came over to the bed. She was pretty, Stiles thought idly. But she looked tired and pale and as she reached forward to check his temperature he noticed a bruise on her wrist.

"You're not a werewolf," he said stupidly.

"No." She rested the back of a hand against his forehead briefly before stepping back. "And neither are you."

"Obviously, or my head wouldn't hurt like this."

"It's not too bad. It could have been worse."

Stiles was about to splutter something indignant in protest but then he realised she did have a point. He was still alive, and appeared to still be in one piece.

"I'm Stiles," he said, holding up a hand for her to shake.

"Allison." Her skin was cool and soft. “Nice to meet you, Stiles.”

It was like a shot of adrenaline to his system. “Allison! Allison Argent! I remember you, you were-“ The girl Scott crushed on for all of two days before the world went to shit. “Here,” he ended lamely.

Allison, though, just smiled. “It’s ok. It’s been a while. And you-“ She gestured at her head.

“Yeah.” Stiles tried to push himself into a sitting position but his muscles were embarrassingly weak. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days. It’s probably for the best. You've slept through the worst of the concussion.” As if she knew exactly what Stiles had been thinking, she added, “They were gentle with you. Nothing was broken.”

Stiles pulled a face. “If this is their idea of gentle, I’d hate to see violent.”

A shadow crossed Allison’s face, gone so quickly Stiles might have missed it if he hadn't been watching her closely.

“You have no idea what they can be like.”

The thought that had been nagging at Stiles since he’d woken up crystallised into memory. “My dad! I-“

“He’s ok,” Allison assured him quickly. “He’s ok.”

“Did you see him? Is he-“

“He’s fine, he’s ok,” she repeated, squeezing his hand. “I was there, I saw it, he’s ok. Things calmed down after- after you got knocked out. Everyone’s ok. Peter likes order; he was never going to let it turn into a massacre.”

“Ok,” Stiles said slowly. He looked at the bruise on her wrist again. “Sounds like you know him pretty well.”

Allison stared at him for a moment in bemusement and then shook her head, smiling slightly. “You think- I- Stiles, there’s nothing going on between me and Peter Hale.”

“He’s a werewolf,” Stiles pointed out. “You’re not. And you’re with them and alive.”

"I'm useful to him," Allison said, and if she was going to add anything else Stiles didn't get to hear it, because at that moment the door opened and Peter Hale walked into the room.

He looked almost harmless, casually dressed in jeans and shirt. But he still moved with that predatory grace, and his eyes missed nothing.

"He's awake," he said, addressing Allison while watching Stiles intently.

"Yes. I-"

"You can leave."

Allison gave Stiles an apologetic look and slipped out of the room. Stiles bit back on the urge to beg her not to go, since her going meant he was alone with Peter Hale and there was every chance the werewolf was going to rip his throat out.

"So," he began, clearing his throat. "Are you going to rip my throat out?"

Hale raised an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get blood out of these sheets?"

Now it was Stiles' turn to raise an eyebrow. "Somehow I doubt it's you washing the sheets, dude." The fact that he'd just addressed Peter Hale as _dude_ hit Stiles several seconds after the word left his lips, far too late for him to do anything but swallow nervously and wait for Hale to murder him.

Hale, though, just looked amused. “It’s good to see you've recovered from your injuries. I have something to discuss with you.”

“Discuss,” Stiles said flatly. This didn't sound good. This _really_ didn't sound good.

“Your father is coming to meet with me shortly.”

“Ok?”

Hale sat down on the end of the bed. He made no move to touch Stiles but Stiles couldn't help tensing up anyway. With werewolf speed he’d never even see an attack coming.

“Over the last few days I've been establishing my base here and reacquainting myself with Beacon Hills.”

“Awesome,” Stiles muttered.

“Your father has this town ticking along.” Hale continued as if Stiles hadn't spoken. “I see no reason why he can’t continue to manage the day to run running of the place. Assuming there are no problems, of course. No … distractions.”

“Meaning that there are less than twenty of you and you don’t want to be taken out one by one?”

“You certainly have a way of phrasing things, Stiles” Hale said dryly. “But yes. While I could run this town without the cooperation of the human population, I’d rather not go down that route.”

“What do you need cooperation for? You’re just going to kill us all in the end anyway, right?”

Hale, to Stiles’ surprise, actually looked shocked. “Kill you all? What would be the point in that?”

“Well,” Stiles said. “You wouldn't have to worry about us killing you then.”

“Ah yes.” Hale got up from the bed and Stiles half-expected him to leave the room but instead the werewolf went over to the window. “Back to that. And of course we’re nothing but monsters.”

“It’s been said.” Stiles knew he was pushing it. Hale could kill him in a heartbeat. But the werewolf still didn’t look particularly angry. Mildly irritated, perhaps, but not actually angry.

“Mmm, then perhaps we are. Perhaps I am. Thinking that I am might help you make a decision.”

“A decision about what?” Stiles asked warily.

Hale turned, smirking. “Your father is coming here to talk to me. When he comes here, I want him to see that you are a captive here. That you are safe - for the moment - but that there is no possibility of you escaping.”

“Ok,” Stiles said slowly. He had a very bad feeling about the way this conversation was going.

“Of course, for your sake it would be better if your father thought you were held here against your will.”

“I _am_ here against my will,” Stiles protested.

Hale raised an eyebrow and spread his arms wide. “And yet I’ve been in this room for ten minutes and you haven’t attacked me. Haven’t tried to escape. Why is that, Stiles?”

“I don’t want to die,” Stiles said, and then his brain caught up with his ears and he realised that Hale had been listening to his conversation with Allison from outside the room. “My head hurts, I think you might have broken my skull…”

“You have concussion,” Hale said, moving closer. “You’re otherwise uninjured. Why haven’t you attacked me?”

Stiles looked up at the werewolf looming over him. There was something more terrifying about Hale’s quiet, insistent voice than any of the roars and growls of the other werewolves. “Because I won’t win,” he mumbled. “You’d just kill me.”

“Good,” Hale said. He looked and sounded satisfied by Stiles’ response. “And that is exactly what I want your father to feel too. That there’s no point in him resisting.”

“He won’t. He’s trying to keep people safe, to stop anyone else from dying.”

Hale bared his teeth. Stiles couldn’t call it a smile. “Then we all have the same goals. But I want your cooperation to make the point to him, Stiles. To make sure he doesn’t try anything heroic. Will you give me that cooperation?”

“If you want me to talk to him, that won’t work,” Stiles said warily. “He doesn’t listen to anything I say.”

Hale tilted his head at that, as if Stiles had said something interesting. But instead of addressing it directly, he said instead:

“Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, Stiles’ stomach rumbled. Hale’s lips quirked in amusement and Stiles thought he might hate him, just a little.

“I’ll have something brought through for you. We should get you cleaned up first though.”

For a brief, horrifying moment Stiles thought Hale meant that he was going to wash him himself, and the mental picture that conjured up made him want to hide under the covers. He breathed a sigh of relief when the man instead went over to the door and opened it to say something Stiles couldn’t make out to the werewolf standing outside.

Then he left.

Stiles was left alone for all of five minutes, lying as still as he could and trying not to breathe while watching the open door like a hawk, before two werewolves entered the room carrying an old-fashioned metal bathtub. This was placed in the middle of the room and then the two werewolves proceeded to fill it with gently-steaming water via a succession of buckets. Neither looked very happy about the menial task but not as unhappy as Stiles was when the younger of the two turned to him and growled:

“Up.”

“I’ll just-“ Stiles began. The werewolf showed teeth. Stiles shut his mouth on the rest of that sentence. “Not much for privacy, huh?”

Neither answered that and eventually, throwing all thoughts of dignity to the wind because, really, the water looked very appealing, Stiles threw back the sheets and cautiously slid out of bed, waiting for the return of the blinding headache.

It didn’t come. He felt weak, and a little dizzy, and more than a little nauseated when he belatedly realised that he was naked, but the pain in his head was gone and he managed to make it across the room without falling in an undignified sprawl on the floor. He briefly considered asking the werewolves to look away for a minute while he climbed into the tub but just as quickly discarded that idea.

The water was lukewarm rather than hot, but it felt glorious as far as Stiles was concerned, washing away the grime of two bedridden days and leaving him feeling significantly more human than he had before. There was only a sliver of soap, but it was good stuff rather than the hard, rank-smelling soap he was normally reduced to using. Stiles found that he was able to ignore the watchers and concentrate solely on the pleasure of washing himself.

They didn't help him get out of the tub but one of them wordlessly handed him a towel and indicated that Stiles should dry himself. Any question of what would happen to the used water was answered when the two werewolves picked up the tub, water and all, and carried it out of the room, leaving Stiles alone. He took the opportunity to quickly dry himself, not wanting the indignity of doing it in front of them. By the time they returned he had the towel tucked around his waist. To his disappointment, neither looked like they cared very much.

"So what now? You've watched me lather up, what happens for an encore?"

Food, apparently: the door opened soon after to admit another werewolf carrying a place of food and a glass of something unidentifiable. He gave Stiles an unreadable look as he set them down, before leaving the room as quickly as he had come.

"Not much of a talker, huh," Stiles muttered.

He eyed the food suspiciously. It looked like soup and bread and it smelled ok: Stiles reasoned that if Hale wanted him dead, there were easier ways than poisoning his food, and started eating. It only took a few bites for him to realise just how ravenous he was, and he didn’t stop until every scrap of food was gone.

His werewolf guards hadn’t moved. If they were expecting him to die then they were doing a great job of seeming unconcerned. Stiles decided he was probably right about the food not being poisoned.

And then, he had nothing to do. He paced circles for a while, until his leg muscles reminded him that he’d been in bed for two days, and then he lay in bed for a while and stared at the ceiling.

It wasn’t a particularly interesting ceiling.

Once or twice he tried making conversation with his guards, but neither werewolf rose to the bait and the most Stiles got out of them was a growl. Stiles was almost starting to miss Hale, right up until the moment the door opened and the man himself walked in.

“Are we feeling better?” Peter Hale asked pleasantly.

Stiles pushed himself to a sitting position and wished he’d thought to get under the covers. The towel suddenly didn’t seem like much protection.

“Get out,” Hale told the guards. He didn't spare them a glance as he advanced on the bed.

“You know, you could really work on those people skills,” Stiles said as the guards left. “Maybe start with please, work your way up to thank you.”

“What a mouth you have on you,” Hale said mildly. “Anyone would think you weren’t afraid of me at all.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, not quite touching Stiles but close enough. “But we both know that’s not true.”

Stiles swallowed. Suddenly it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room. “Right. You can hear my heartbeat, can’t you? Werewolf senses.”

“Yes,” Hale agreed. His fingers tapped on the bed sheets, right next to Stiles’ leg. “Now, to business. What we discussed earlier.” Without waiting for Stiles to respond, he reached down and dragged something from under the bed: a bag of some kind, made from a heavy canvas. “Your father will be here shortly.” He pulled a length of rope out of the bag. “I think you should be there to greet him.”

“No,” Stiles said, reflexively drawing his legs up.

“Stiles,” Hale said patiently. “You have a brain connected to that mouth. You know this will happen whether you cooperate or not, so why not make it easier for yourself?”

“Not for you?” Stiles spat out.

Hale raised an eyebrow. “You struggling would be much more enjoyable for me, I assure you.” His fingertips brushed the side of Stiles’ foot, moving with him as Stiles jerked away. “Turn over.”

Stiles scrabbled further up the bed, his heart hammering in his chest. “No,” he managed. “No way. Fuck you and whatever fucked-up- whatever you think you’re going to do.”

Hale raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t even told you what I intend to do.”

“Even with werewolf healing, it’s still going to hurt like a bitch when I kick you in the balls.”

Hale, if anything, only looked amused. “I do believe you would. But you have my word that I’m not going to force myself on you.”

“Your _word_?” Stiles said disbelievingly.

“Yes, my word.” Hale tapped his foot. “Turn over. So I can bind your hands.” He shook his head and sighed when Stiles didn’t move. “I’m not going to rape you, Stiles.”

Stiles weighed his options. On the one hand, he probably could kick Hale in the balls. On the other, Hale would probably kill him and his dad and everyone else in Beacon Hills. And Stiles knew he’d do anything to keep his dad alive and he was pretty sure Hale knew that too. He’d lost too much already to do otherwise. If it cost him his dignity and a little pain to keep them safe then it was a price worth paying.

“Fine,” he said resignedly.

He had to scoot back down the bed to give himself enough room to turn onto his front. The towel gave him trouble briefly, before Hale snicked out a claw and sliced it off him. Stiles couldn’t hold back a bark of near-hysterical laughter.

Hale didn’t touch him right away; in fact, he stood and gave Stiles some space to arrange himself as comfortably as he could on the bed. Whatever game he was playing, Stiles didn’t know the rules.

“Hands behind your back,” Hale prompted him.

Stiles reluctantly complied, holding his wrists together in the small of his back. He heard Hale snort.

“Flat together.” Stiles jerked as Hale pressed a hand against his hip. “What a clever boy you are. Who taught you to hold your wrists that way, so the rope would go slack when you turned your hands?”

“I read it in a book,” Stiles said, trying to hold himself still when every fibre of his being was screaming at him to get away.

Hale snorted again, but he was quiet as he looped the rope around Stiles’ wrists, tying his hands together expertly - and, Stiles quickly discovered, extremely securely. He tested his bonds, trying to find a weakness but, while the rope was soft and supple, it was also unyielding.

“Let’s get you on your feet.”

It felt ridiculous to stand naked, with his hands tied behind his back, and Stiles was pretty sure Hale thought it was ridiculous. That was probably why he was doing it, Stiles reasoned. To humiliate him. To make him feel weak and helpless.

He hated to admit to himself that it was working.

He pulled away and nearly fell over when Hale knelt down and reached for his balls. “Fuck no!” he exclaimed.

Hale just tutted and reached for him again. “I’m not going to break my promise, Stiles,” he chided. “I assure you that your virtue is perfectly safe.”

“You’re holding my- ah- oh fuck-” Whatever coherency Stiles had had was lost as Hale started wrapping another, narrower length of rope snugly around the base of his balls. It wasn’t remotely sexual - Stiles was too terrified to feel much of anything and Hale’s touch was almost clinical in its detachment - but he had never felt so exposed and so vulnerable in his life.

When Hale was done there was a short length of rope left hanging against Stiles’ leg. “Perfect,” Hale said with satisfaction. “How does that feel?”

“Like you tied something round my balls, you sick fuck.”

“There’s method in my madness,” Hale said coolly. He rose to his feet and looked Stiles over. “Perhaps we need something more.”

Stiles was afraid to ask but he got his answer almost immediately as Hale went over to the bag and pulled out a ball gag.

“You don’t need to do that,” Stiles said, desperation making his voice higher. “I’ll be quiet.”

Hale smiled at that, a small lupine smile. “I don’t think you could be quiet if you tried,” he said, coming back to Stiles. He pressed the ball against Stiles’ lips and smiled again when Stiles refused to open his mouth. “Play nicely, Stiles.”

Stiles glared at him.

Hale sighed, and quick as a flash pushed Stiles up against the wall, holding him in place with his body weight while he clamped Stiles’ nose with one hand, and shoved the ball into Stiles’ mouth with the other when Stiles inevitably had to open his mouth to breathe. Stiles could only curse werewolf strength and reflexes as he was pushed briefly to his knees so Hale could buckle the gag.

“That’s much better,” Hale said with satisfaction as he guided Stiles to his feet again. Stiles tried to express his feelings on the matter but all that came out was muffled incoherent mumbling that Hale seemed to find highly amusing.

Stiles decided to keep quiet.

Without any kind of obvious signal from Hale, the guards re-entered the room and flanked Stiles, with matching leers at his state that had Stiles flushing deeply and wishing desperately that he could cover himself. Hale just nodded, as if it brought him great satisfaction to see Stiles’ embarrassment, and set off. Stiles found himself following along in his wake, guided by the werewolves.

He hadn’t yet seen much of the interior of the former bank: he hadn’t been inside it for a couple of years prior to his capture and it was clear that the werewolves had been working hard to clear it out and make it habitable in the days he had been unconscious. It hit him then that this wasn’t some fleeting visit the wolves were making: they intended to stay in Beacon Hills. Logically he’d known that would be the case - but the harsh reality of it was all around him in the smell of sawdust and fresh paint and the sight of damp-stained furnishings pulled down and stacked high for disposal.

Hale had his headquarters in what had once been a boardroom. It was a long, narrow room, badly-lit so as to favour werewolf eyesight, with a simple desk and chair at the far end and another couple of chairs facing the desk about halfway down the room. Hale took a seat in this chair, and gestured to the space next to him.

“On your knees, I think,” he said. He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Fetch him a cushion.” This last was addressed to one of the other werewolves, who hurried to do his bidding.

Stiles briefly considered putting up a fight but he already knew it was pointless; he was helpless. His hands were tied tightly behind his back and the gag robbed him even of his words. He knelt on the cushion the werewolf placed on the floor with considerable ill-humour, and tried not to think about how pitiful he surely looked tied like this.

“Not too cold, I hope,” Hale said solicitously.

Stiles glared. Hale just smiled.

“But where are my manners? Let’s get you ready to see your father.”

Stiles made a sound he would probably be embarrassed about later as Hale reached down and took hold of the loose strand of rope hanging between his legs and the tension in the rope around his balls suddenly increased. Stiles made a desperate sound of distress.

“Hold still now,” Hale warned.

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice; he held himself still through sheer force of will as Hale looped the strand around his wrist bindings and tightened it until there was no slack at all and any attempt by Stiles to move his arms risked immediate castration.

“That’s much better,” Hale said, smirking as he sat himself back in his chair. He gestured to one of the other werewolves. “Bring them in.” As Stiles made a despairing sound of protest, he added, “I suggest you behave, Stiles. We wouldn’t want your father to get any ideas, now would we?”

Stiles wanted nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow him; anything would be better than the reality of seeing his father’s expression go from mildly apprehensive to shocked to furious in the space of a few seconds as he walked into the room and caught sight of his son naked and bound and kneeling at the feet of a werewolf.

“What have you done to him, you mons-”

“Good morning, Sheriff Stilinski,” Hale said smoothly as the female werewolf who had shown the visitors in pushed Stiles’ dad down into one of the chairs that had been set up in the middle of the room. “Take a seat.”

The Sheriff got half way out of his seat before the female pushed him back down, less gently this time. Stiles saw his father wince and he wanted to tell him to stop, to be still, to not get himself killed for the sake of Stiles’ non-existent dignity – but Hale had rendered him incapable of any kind of protest at all and all he could do was watch.

“That’s better,” Hale said when the Sheriff begrudgingly sank back down in his seat. Stiles had never hated anyone more than he hated Peter Hale at that moment.

There were two more werewolves standing behind his dad and the other -human. One of them was the anaemic-looking werewolf who seemed to have taken a particular dislike to Stiles. He was looking at him now, leering at Stiles’ helplessness. Stiles pretended he hadn’t noticed.

“What do you want?” the Sheriff asked. “Why is- why is Stiles- Stiles, are you ok?”

Stiles started to nod before he was reminded of why any kind of movement was a very bad idea indeed. A choked sob escaped before he managed to regain his composure, and then he settled for blinking and pulling as much of a face as he could behind the gag, hoping that his dad would understand.

“We’re not here to talk about Stiles,” Hale said dismissively.

“No, but you brought him here for a reason,” the Sheriff said doggedly, and Stiles wanted to both applaud him for the insight and curse him drawing attention to it. “You brought him and- and dressed him up like that-”

“Hardly dressed,” Hale said. He was enjoying this, Stiles realised. He was getting off on the Sheriff’s anger and humiliation at seeing Stiles like this.

Stiles, meanwhile, was getting concerned about his dad’s blood pressure. He blinked furiously at his dad, trying to get him to understand that he was ok, that this humiliation was nothing much at all, nothing in the great scheme of things, and if this was what it took to keep the werewolves from killing everyone in Beacon Hills then Stiles would willingly pay the price. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t, but his dad sighed and slumped a little like the fight had gone out of him, and said:

“What do you want, Mr Hale?”

“Co-operation,” Hale said immediately. “That’s all; nothing more. There’s no reason for there to be any big changes for the human population of Beacon Hills, aside from the small matters we’ve already discussed.”

The Sheriff glanced at Stiles again.

“He stays with me,” Hale said, settling his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. It burned like a brand. The Sheriff was already shaking his head when Hale added, “To guarantee your continued good behaviour, and that of the others.”

“If we do this…” the Sheriff began.

“Which you will.”

“If we do this.” The Sheriff looked at Stiles again, then at the hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and then back at Hale. “I hold you personally responsible for his safety, do you hear?” he said tightly. “I need to know that he’s safe.”

Hale’s hand tightened its grip on Stiles’ shoulder but his voice was perfectly calm when he spoke.

“You have no need to be concerned, Sheriff. If you do your job. Stiles’ safety is entirely in your hands now. As long as you maintain order in Beacon Hills, your son stays in one piece.”

The Sheriff looked despairingly at Stiles and then back at Hale. “You have my word,” he said stiffly.

“Good.”

Seemingly bored of the conversation, Hale gestured to the werewolves at the back of the room and they hurried forward to escort the two humans out. The Sheriff made an abortive move towards Stiles but backed off when the female growled at him. He looked back twice as he walked out of the room, anguish written all over his face.

“There,” Hale said with satisfaction as the door closed behind them. “That went well, I think.”

Stiles made what he hoped was an angry sound. Hale flexed his fingers and sharp points dug into Stiles’ skin. Claws, right.

“I’d take that gag out but you probably have a lot to say to me that I don’t want to hear.”

_Fuck you_ , Stiles thought angrily as Hale stood up in one graceful move. He held himself still as Hale crouched down beside him, realising that Hale was cutting the rope between his wrists and his balls. When he’d done that, he carefully unwound the rope around Stiles’ balls.

“That’s better,” Hale said softly as the ropes fell away. “No, don’t try and stand up on your own. We don’t want you to fall, do we?” He turned to the anaemic-looking werewolf, who had remained in the room. “Take him back to his room and untie him and remove the gag. Make sure he has food and water.”

The other werewolf, Stiles realised, was not exactly happy with the order. “He’s a human,” he said sulkily, spitting out the last word like it was a curse word. “Who cares if he’s comfortable?” His hand closed on Stiles’ injured arm, fingers digging unerringly into all the sore points. Stiles whimpered.

“I don’t want him damaged, Til,” Hale said mildly.

“You’re not an alph-”

Stiles’ brain didn’t even have time to register the movement of Hale’s arm before Til was flying across the room to impact heavily with the wall. He slid to the floor, winded and clutching a broken arm.

“You’re right,” Hale said. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’m not the alpha. But I am in charge, and you will do as I say. Am I understood?”

Breath rasping a little - Stiles thought the arm wasn’t the only thing that was broken - Til reluctantly nodded. “I understand,” he wheezed. “The human is not to be harmed.”

“I don’t want him damaged,” Hale clarified. He chucked Stiles under the chin, and laughed to himself as Stiles flinched away.

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” the werewolf told him. “As long as your father behaves himself, you have nothing to fear from me.”

For some reason, Stiles didn't find Hale’s words particularly comforting.


	3. Chapter 3

The headache that had plagued Stiles for days after he regained consciousness finally eased after a week, and the nausea that had been his constant companion was gone as if it had never been. It was a welcome relief but, faced with the fact that he no longer wanted to sleep the most of the day, Stiles found himself with not very much to do.

He wasn't, to his surprise at first, actually locked in. Food and water were brought to his room at regular intervals but there was nothing to stop him wandering around as he chose and, after an initial tentative foray into the corridor outside, Stiles began exploring the building. The werewolves had been busy setting it up as their base, as their den, and they didn't seem to care about Stiles poking around its defences.

The werewolves, for the most part, ignored him. He'd been given new clothes to wear and Stiles could only surmise that in some way they made him blend in, because most of the werewolves didn't even acknowledge his presence and those that did looked away at once. Or maybe Hale had told them to ignore Stiles, but Stiles didn't want to think too hard about that. He hadn't seen Hale at all since the day he'd been paraded in front of his father and Stiles didn't know whether that was because Hale was avoiding him or because the werewolf had left. Which would leave Stiles at the mercy of the other werewolves, namely Til, and he didn't want to think about that. Til didn't look away whenever he passed Stiles in the corridors; he stared and stared as if he was mentally undressing Stiles. With his teeth.

On the tenth day after he woke up, Stiles found Allison. She was sitting in what had once been a roof garden but was now little more than worn paving flags and some cracked planters. She smiled when she saw Stiles like she was actually pleased to see him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Better." Stiles hesitantly sat down next to her. She didn't seem to mind. "How about you?"

"I'm fine."

"Good." Stiles stared up at the leaden sky and tried to think of something else to say. What was there to say? All they had in common was a few shared memories and the fact that they were both humans in a den of werewolves. He didn’t really want to start talking about Scott and high school and what had once been normal life.

"I used to think about escaping," Allison said unexpectedly. "A lot. I spent a lot of time coming up with plans to escape, at first."

"And go where?"

Allison gave him a considering look. "Werewolves aren't everywhere, you know. There are still places that are safe. Places where humans run things and defend their territory. My family are hunters."

"Hunters?"

"Werewolf hunters."

Stiles snorted. "Is that why he keeps you here?" He realised after the fact that it probably sounded rude. Allison, though, didn't seem to be offended. Maybe she was used to it, Stiles thought. The werewolves didn’t seem to have much in the way of social graces.

"He keeps me here as a hostage. For my family's good behaviour." At Stiles's quizzical look, she added:

"So they don't hunt werewolves. Or at least, so they don’t hunt the Hale pack."

Stiles's mental gears were whirring. "They must be pretty good hunters."

"They're the best." Allison smiled, a little sadly. “It’s funny; if it wasn’t for all this, I don’t know when my family would have told me about it. The family business, I mean. Or even about werewolves.”

“So you didn’t know before?” Stiles asked.

“No. Did you?”

“No.”

Allison picked at the hem of her jacket. “I wish- I wish I hadn't let them down. By getting captured. By Peter Hale, of all people."

"What's so bad about him?" Stiles asked with forced casualness, hoping very much that Allison knew nothing about what Hale had done to him.

"Apart from the fact that my family murdered most of his family and left him for dead? Nothing much." Allison rubbed at her face with her hand. "He has every reason to hate us. To hate me."

"But he hasn't hurt you, right?"

Allison shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “I'm useful to him, but that's only alive, not unharmed. He just- he doesn't hurt people physically for the sake of it." She turned to Stiles then, suddenly urgent. "But don't think he won't if you cross him. If you do anything that threatens the pack, he'll make you wish you were dead. I’ve seen what he can do."

Stiles swallowed around the bitter taste in his mouth. "I'll keep that in mind," he said. "He's not the alpha, right?"

Allison released the grip she'd had on his hand. "No. That's Laura, his niece. She is not here," she added, before Stiles could interject. "It's a big pack. Peter is- I don't know how you'd describe it." She frowned a little. "I don't know why he's here. In Beacon Hills. Peter doesn't like being away from the, from the power."

“If it wasn’t him it’d be someone else.”

Allison nodded as if Stiles had said something deeply profound rather than simply stating the obvious. “Yes, that’s true. And there are worse. Much worse. Did you hear about the pack who came through San Diego? My father said-” She stopped abruptly, then said simply, “It was bad.”

“We don’t exactly get much news out here,” Stiles pointed out.

“That’s probably for the best,” Allison said wryly. There wasn’t much Stiles could say to that and silence fell between them again, but it was comfortable this time instead of awkward.

It had started to snow again, just a few tiny flakes for now, but Stiles knew from experience that a full on blizzard was not far behind.

"We should go inside," he said and started to stand up but Allison caught his arm.

"Don't try to cross him, Stiles," she said quietly. "Do what he wants and maybe you'll survive. Don’t keep secrets from him and don’t think you can fool him. A werewolf knows if you’re lying.”

Stiles stayed on the roof for a while after Allison had gone back inside, even when the snow started to settle on the ground. He thought about what she had said and he thought about his dad but most of all he thought about what Hale had said to him and how he had looked at him and what he had made him do.

And then Stiles started to think about how he could kill Peter Hale.

***

"I want to see my father," Stiles said as he burst through the door of Peter Hale's office. It still rankled that it had taken him three weeks to find it in the first place. The werewolves seemed to have a fetish for false doors, false walls, and anything else they could throw at making the former bank an impenetrable maze.

Peter Hale didn't seem surprised by Stiles's incursion. He leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on the desk and looked at Stiles with something like amusement in his eyes.

"Most people knock."

"Fuck you." Stiles wasn't particularly proud of that one. "I want to see my father."

Hale's expression didn't change. "That wasn't part of our deal."

"Our deal- look, I did what you asked me to do. What else do you want me to do?"

Hale's lips quirked. "Well isn't that a loaded question?"

"Fuck you."

"That's not really very imaginative, Stiles." Hale tapped his fingertips against the desk. "I can assure you that your father is perfectly safe. Perfectly healthy. As is everyone else in Beacon Hills."

"I don't believe you," Stiles said stubbornly. "I want to see him."

Hale sighed. "I'm hurt by your lack of faith in me, Stiles."

"I don't give a fuck about your feelings. I want to see my father."

"Fine." Hale pushed the chair back and got to his feet. “Come on then.”

"What?"

That earned him a knowing smirk from the werewolf. "We're going to see your father, of course. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Stiles took a step back, and then another as Hale came around the desk towards him. "Are you going to tie me up again?"

Hale didn't bother hiding his amusement. "Only if you want me to."

"Yeah, how about no." Stiles realised, as he said it, that his wishes probably didn't matter much anyway; if Peter Hale wanted to tie him up and humiliate him again then there wasn't much Stiles could do to stop him.

But Hale didn't force him; he didn't even touch Stiles as he led him out of the office and back through the maze of rooms and corridors to what had once been the main entrance of the bank. He exchanged a few words with the werewolf guarding the door and then they were out onto the street and the sudden freedom - illusory though it was - was dizzying.

"We need to go-"

"I know where your father lives," Hale said, like that wasn't completely creepy. Stiles nodded dumbly and fell in step with the werewolf, trying not to make it too obvious that he was still half expecting Hale to grab him and either tie him up again or kill him because this was all too unexpectedly easy.

The compound was not as deserted as Stiles had expected. He knew the werewolves had a curfew in place but it was still a couple of hours before that and there were people moving around, going about what looked like their normal business. They didn't look at Hale, Stiles noticed. They didn't much look at Stiles either, and Stiles could feel himself flushing at the thought that they all knew what had happened.

His dad flushed too when he open the door and saw Stiles standing there with Peter Hale, but Stiles quickly realised it was anger more than anything else when his father snapped:

"Get away from him."

Hale, to Stiles a surprise, raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I'm just escorting him," he said mildly. "For a brief visit."

Any hope Stiles might have had that he would be allowed to come home vanished with those words. He was still a prisoner, albeit a privileged one.

"As you can see, Stiles," Hale continued. "Your father is safe and healthy. No harm will come to him as long as you behave yourself, and no harm will come to you while he behaves himself." Hale looked from Stiles to the sheriff and added, "That includes your deputy, sheriff. You should tell him to stay away from our fuel stores."

The sheriff flinched minutely but his voice was tightly controlled when he said, "I'll make sure he knows."

"Good," Hale said. He looked back at Stiles. "Time is up."

"Hey!" Stiles protested. "I only just got here!"

"And now you're done here," Hale responded in a tone that brooked no argument. "You can hug your father goodbye, if you like."

"Gee, thanks," Stiles said sarcastically, but he was already moving in to hug his dad before the werewolf changed his mind and as the sheriff's arms closed tight around him he could pretend for a moment that none of this had happened and everything was as it had been.

All too soon, the sheriff was pulling away, letting him go. Stiles furiously blinked back the tears that were threatening to fall; he was not going to cry in front of Peter Hale.

"You can see him again soon," Hale said, and Stiles wasn't sure whether it was addressed to him or his dad. Either way, they both nodded, and Hale seemed satisfied with that.

“What the fuck,” Stiles burst out as they walked away from the house. “What was the point of bringing me here for that?”

“You wanted to see your father,” Hale said. His smirk was maddening.

“You know what, fuck you.”

Hale stopped abruptly and Stiles thought he’d gone too far, that Hale was going to kill him right here, right now.

“Think about it, Stiles,” Hale said, and there was something terrifying in the calm way he said it. “What were you planning to talk about with your father? That you live perfectly comfortably? That you have plenty to eat? That I don’t touch you?”

“You mean the truth?”

Hale’s voice was positively glacial when he said, “If you told the truth I’m sure no one would think you were actively collaborating, Stiles. Or judge your father for it. What reason would they have to doubt the leadership of a man whose son consorts willingly with werewolves?”

 _Oh_. The brilliance of it was sickening and Stiles didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Is this why you- why you tied-”

“Of course,” Hale said blandly. “And partly because it amused me, but mostly for that reason.”

“Bastard,” Stiles said, but his heart wasn’t in it.

As they were walking back, Stiles had an idea. He chewed it over for a while but, as far as he could see, Hale didn't have a reason to deny him and he took a deep breath and said:

"Can I- can I swing by the old high school?"

Hale stopped and eyed him quizzically. "Is this for nostalgic reasons?"

"Not exactly." It wasn't hard to look sad and Stiles thought it would probably be hard even for a werewolf to pick up any lie in his words. "I just have a lot of friends there. From, from, you know."

It was probably his imagination or a trick of the light that Hale's expression seemed to soften slightly. Stiles rushed on before he could be refused.

"It's not like there's anyone alive for me to talk to down there. Just a mound of earth. I just need to talk to them, ok, and I know that sounds crazy but..." Stiles wound down, not knowing what else to say. It sounded ridiculous anyway and Hale was probably going to march him straight back to the bank and lock him away so he didn't have to listen to any more. Instead, Hale said:

"All right. Thirty minutes."

Stiles stared at him. "I don't have a watch," he said dumbly.

With an exasperated sigh, Hale unbuckled his own watch and handed it to Stiles. "I want that back," he told him. "Undamaged."

Stiles didn't know what to say to that and Hale didn't seem inclined to wait for him to think of an answer, because he turned and walked away without another word, leaving Stiles standing in the middle of the street holding his watch.

It was a nice watch. Old, with a leather strap that was much newer. Stiles turned it over in his hands and saw that there was an inscription on the back but when he squinted at the tiny lettering he saw that it was in a language he couldn't read: French, maybe, or Spanish. It obviously had sentimental value, whatever it said, and Stiles wondered if it had been given to Peter by his father or grandfather.

Stiles was still puzzling it over when he got to the high school but his hopes of a little bit of peace and solitude were dashed when he spotted the lone figure standing by the burial mound. Stiles was about to curse his luck and head back to the bank when he realised it was Allison.

“Hey,” he said. He hadn’t been trying to sneak up on her but she jumped nonetheless. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Allison said, forcing a somewhat shaky smile. “What are you doing out here?”

Stiles waved a hand at the burial mound. “You know how it is. Visiting the dead.”

“Oh, sorry.” Allison was adorable when she was flustered, Stiles thought. In another life, in another universe, she and Scott could have been great together. "I can go...”

“No, it’s okay,” Stiles said quickly. “I just haven’t been out here for a while because of, you know.” He looked around and for the first time realised how deserted the remains of the high school were. He’d expected to see at least a couple of werewolves on the perimeter given that from here any intruder had a straight run to the compound.

“Everything okay?” Allison asked.

“Yeah, I think so.” Stiles looked around again. “It’s kind of short on furry friends out here.”

“They don’t really come out here,” Allison said. “Not this way.”

“Ok, don’t you think that’s a _little_ weird?”

Allison shrugged. “There are lots of things that are weird, Stiles. I’ve given up trying to think too much about most of them.”

They stood in silence for a while. Stiles set the question of the lack of patrols aside for a moment to think about what he was going to do, and about Peter Hale specifically. The trouble was, he couldn’t think of a course of action that wouldn’t lead to mayhem and death and, while Stiles didn’t particularly want to throw his own life away, he wanted his dad’s life thrown away even less. Even if by some miracle he managed to kill Peter, he still had the rest of the pack to contend with and he’d already seen that most of them had little time for humans. Without Peter’s steadying influence, they’d probably wipe out the remaining population of Beacon Hills.

“Hey,” he said to Allison. “Your family want you back, right?”

Allison looked startled. “What?”

Stiles started to pace, trying to get his thoughts in order. “Why would they bring you here? Why did they come here? Why split the pack? Pack is really important to werewolves; it’s part of their identity, it’s what they are. A werewolf without a pack is an omega, an outsider, they’re vulnerable. Why would Peter come here with you?”

“Laura didn’t want him to bring me,” Allison said slowly. “After we left Beacon Hills, my mom and I got separated from my dad, and then mom and I got split up. Laura was the one who, who caught me.”

“And she didn’t want you to come?”

Allison shook her head. “No. They had an argument about it. I don’t know what happened, what was said, but Laura changed her mind.” Allison bit her lip. “She wasn't happy about whatever Peter's up to.”

“And your family killed the Hale pack, right?”

“Yes.” Allison’s voice was strained. “I didn’t know- I didn’t know about that before we left Beacon Hills. My family are great at secrets and my Aunt Kate is apparently crazy and really hates werewolves-”

“Not exactly a fan myself,” Stiles muttered.

“And you know what happened,” Allison continued as if Stiles had not spoken. “She burned their house down. They all died, even the little kids. Even the ones who weren’t werewolves.” She bit her lip again. “My parents argued about it. The hunters have a Code. They have rules. The Hale pack wasn’t a danger to anyone; they hadn’t killed. But my mom said Kate was right. That werewolves are animals and have to be put down.”

Stiles couldn’t remember Allison’s mom from the brief time the Argents had spent in Beacon Hills before the world had gone to shit but he made a mental note to himself that he probably didn’t want to meet her. “Okay, but they’re probably looking for you, right? They’ll want you back.”

“I suppose so,” Allison said warily.

Stiles laughed, and going by Allison’s expression the laughter sounded even crazier than it did in his head. “That’s it, then. That’s what this is all about.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This.” Stiles waved a hand towards the compound in the distance. “This is why he came back here. This is why you’re here. This is his fucking revenge on the Argents for killing his family.”

Allison wasn’t stupid; she got it immediately. “He’s going to kill me,” she said flatly.

It belatedly occurred to Stiles that, in the midst of his excitement at working out what Peter was up to, he’d almost forgotten the very real consequences for the girl standing next to him. “He, he might not go that far,” he said uneasily.

Allison gave him an unimpressed look. “Or he might go that far.” She took a deep breath. “Ok, but this makes no sense. Laura doesn’t believe in killing people for no reason; she wouldn’t let him do it.” She faltered a little on the last word.

“Laura is not here,” Stiles pointed out. “And anyway, don’t you think she might bend the rules just a little to get even with the people who killed her entire family?”

“Why hasn’t he killed me already then?” Allison shot back. “Unless-“

“Unless what?”

“Unless he’s waiting for the anniversary.” Allison had gone very pale. “Which, for revenge-“

“Would be perfect.” It made sense to Stiles. Perfect, perfect sense. “He kills you here, in Beacon Hills, on the anniversary of his family’s deaths. Okay, how long do we have?”

“Just over two months,” Allison said immediately.

A plan was forming in Stiles’ mind. It probably wasn’t a very good plan, and it was almost certainly going to get him killed, but if he was lucky he might be able to solve Beacon Hills’ werewolf problem if not for good then maybe for long enough.

And right now he was out of options.


	4. Chapter 4

"I need to ask you something," Stiles said.

Peter didn't look up from whatever he was writing but Stiles knew the werewolf was perfectly aware of him and had been since before he even entered the room. "Well," he said. "This is considerably politer than last time. Perhaps one day you'll manage to knock before walking in."

Stiles bit back the instinctive response. "My dad needs medicine."

Peter kept writing, not looking at Stiles. "I know."

"You know- how?"

"I'm a werewolf, Stiles."

"Ok, but does that mean you can smell when someone's sick or how does that even work? Can all werewolves do that or is it just you? Can you-“

Peter held up a hand to halt the flow of words. "In my case," he said levelly. "No sixth sense was required. Your father told me."

Stiles tried to get his head around the idea that his father had actually admitted any kind of weakness to anyone, let alone Peter Hale, and failed miserably.

"It's difficult to get any kind of medicine," Peter continued. "You know how it is. We don't need it." He didn't have to say any more. Werewolves didn't need antibiotics, and all the infrastructure to make medicines and transport them had long since disappeared, even if there had been more than a handful of hospitals and doctor's offices still remaining.

"It's not impossible though, right?" Stiles persisted. "He's really sick and it's not getting better and, and I can't lose both parents."

He realised, almost as soon as the words had left his mouth, but that was a stupid thing to say to a man who had lost almost his entire family and he fully expected some cutting remark in return.

Instead, Peter finally set his pen down and looked at Stiles.

"What do you want me to do?"

Stiles rubbed a hand against his cheek. He'd been waiting for an opportunity and he knew what he needed to do but somehow he felt entirely unready for it. His dad being sick hadn't factored into his plans at all.

"Stiles?" Peter prompted.

Stiles took a deep breath. "I was thinking, maybe you could get him some medicine. From somewhere, I don't know. There must be somewhere. Even a doctor to look at him."

"I see." And Stiles would put money on Peter using that sixth sense he claimed he didn't have on Stiles right now, trying to pick up any kind of deception in his words, some indication that Stiles was being less than honest. "And why would I do that?"

"He's the sheriff. He keeps order in the town."

Peter leaned back a little in his chair and smiled lazily. "I'm not denying he does the job and does it well. I'm very grateful to him for the lack of ... resistance. It’s made my life much easier than it could have been.”

Stiles took a step closer. His heart was hammering in his chest now and he knew Peter could hear it, would know how terrified Stiles was. He half-expected some remark on his condition but Peter let him approach without comment, watching in silence as Stiles reached for the hem of his shirt with trembling hands and pulled it awkwardly over his head. Only when Stiles's hands went to his belt buckle did Peter finally speak.

"Stop," he said with surprising gentleness.

"I, I want to do this," Stiles said. His voice cracked a little and he hoped Peter wouldn't notice but of course he did.

"Don't lie to me, Stiles," he said, and although his voice was not unkind there was an undertone of steel there that made Stiles flinch. "Put your shirt back on."

"Isn't this what you wanted?" Embarrassment and a certain amount of desperation spurred Stiles on. "Isn't this why you had me locked up here in the first place?"

Peter tilted his head and eyed Stiles thoughtfully. "Who have you been listening to, I wonder?" he murmured. The question didn't seem to be addressed to Stiles.

"No one," Stiles said. "Look, I don't know what kind of kinky shit you like - actually I do, because you've already done it to me - but it's ok, I can do it." He refrained from saying he wanted it again. Peter already knew that was a lie.

"What a tempting offer," Peter said dryly. He shook his head when Stiles flushed. "Not you. You're very attractive. But I don't want it, Stiles."

Stiles pulled a face that was meant to convey relief or maybe the idea that it was fine and he was okay, but the truth was he actually felt mildly offended, which was ridiculous. The werewolf had had him kidnapped and humiliated and held as a hostage and Stiles had every reason not to want to fall into his bed.

There was a long moment of awkward silence and then Peter sighed.

"About your father," he said. "I'll see what I can do. I can't promise anything."

"Thank you," Stiles said sincerely. "Seriously, thank you, I mean it. I don't know what I'd do if- just, thank you."

"Yes," Peter said, but it wasn't Stiles he was looking at, not really, and there was something in his expression that was intimately familiar to Stiles, something lost and desperate and hurting.

Stiles counted his breaths, in than out. When he got to fifteen, Peter spoke again.

"I lied, before. I do want it."

Stiles didn't say anything. His shirt was still on the floor. Slowly, very slowly, he slid to his knees, his head against Peter's knee.

After a moment, Peter's hand settled in his hair.

"You can run, if you like. The door isn't locked."

Stiles mentally counted to ten and then he turned his head into the caress. "No," was all he said.

Peter mumbled something that could have been _thank you_ or _fuck you_ , Stiles couldn't tell, but before he could try and make sense of it Peter was reaching for him, touching him, and it would have been a thousand times worse if Stiles had thought for one second that any of it was about him.

The truth was that it wasn't him that Peter was seeing, it wasn't him that Peter was touching. Stiles knew without needing to be told that tonight he was nothing more than a facsimile, a shadow of another, a memory made flesh, Peter's lover with dark hair and dark eyes and pale skin who had perished in the Hale fire. And when Peter finally came, shuddering and biting back a cry that sounded more like pain than ecstasy, it was that long-dead lover that he was holding and not Stiles.

"It will help," Peter said afterwards, when he noticed Stiles grimacing at the cooling stickiness in his hair. "With the others. You smell like mine."

"Haven't I always been?" Stiles said, with more than a little bitterness.

Peter's eyes flashed blue, just for a second. "They will all know it now."

Which was, Stiles supposed, the only acknowledgement he was going to get that he'd at least partly succeeded in his mission. "You'll get the medicine, right?” he asked warily.

"I made you a promise. I keep my promises." Whatever strange mood had come over Peter, it had passed now and he was back to his usual detached self. "I'll see what I can do."

Stiles was halfway to the door when Peter added:

"Stiles? Move your things to my quarters. I want you with me."

Stiles turned, trying to ignore the way his stomach was churning that was nothing to do with what they’d just done. "Aren't you afraid I'll try to kill you?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Go," he said simply.

Stiles went and, even though he knew he should be happy that he'd managed to weasel his way into Peter's confidences - and his bed - he couldn't shake off the cold, sick feeling that he'd just made a very bad decision.

***

The worst of it was that Peter wasn’t unkind. He wasn’t cruel, didn’t set out to humiliate Stiles, and generally treated him with consideration when he wasn’t leaving him alone in a way that Stiles found completely and utterly infuriating because he wanted Peter to make this easy for him and the werewolf simply wasn’t playing along.

“Why?” he asked in the third week of sharing Peter’s quarters, sprawled on the sheets of Peter’s bed with Peter kneeling between his thighs.

“Why what?” Peter asked and Stiles realised he’d probably left it too late to ask the question because Peter was already in that detached headspace he went to whenever he wanted anything from Stiles.

“Nothing,” Stiles muttered. “Get on with it then.”

It felt churlish, when Peter had his mouth on Stiles’ cock - and if there was one thing Stiles hadn’t expected from this it was that Peter seemed to genuinely enjoy sucking him off - and for a while Stiles forgot about the question altogether, but later, when he was getting to his feet and stretching his cramped limbs and hoping that Peter wouldn’t make him sleep with cum in his hair again, he remembered and asked it again.

Peter groaned as he sank onto the bed. “Can’t I enjoy the afterglow?” he complained. He was mostly back, Stiles decided. He usually was soon after. Stiles was Stiles again and not a proxy for Peter’s lost lover.

“You didn’t answer,” Stiles said.

Peter cracked open an eye just long enough to get a look at Stiles. “I don’t remember a question,” he said. It was probably true.

Stiles took a step towards the bed, wincing when his leg muscles protested. He wasn’t used to kneeling for any length of time and so _of course_ Peter liked him on his knees. Liked to come in his hair in whatever weird werewolf marking ritual that was - Stiles wasn’t going to ask - and make him walk around like that.

He looked down at Peter, naked and seemingly defenceless. With his eyes closed, he almost looked vulnerable. Almost. 

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

Peter didn’t bother opening his eyes this time. “Do you want me to hurt you?”

“No,” Stiles said at once. Then, “Do you want to?”

“What do you think?”

Stiles knew a trick question when he heard one. He also wasn’t sure how to answer it.

“I think… I think I want my dad to stay alive,” he said carefully.

“Good answer.”

Stiles perched on the edge of the bed, not touching but not far away either. He was trying to think of a way of framing the question when Peter said:

“Stop thinking so loudly. If you want me to hurt you, I will. If you think that me hurting you will in some way make you feel better about this, I will.”

“I don’t know what I feel about this,” Stiles said in a moment of unguarded honesty.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Let me know if and when you reach a decision.”

Stiles picked at a loose thread on the bedsheets. “Will it make a difference, for my dad?”

“No.”

Stiles got up and went to rinse his mouth out eventually since Peter didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation and by the time Stiles returned he was lying so still that Stiles thought he was asleep until he saw his eyes open as Stiles got into bed. Stiles was instantly wary.

“What?”

They were lying very close. If Stiles reached out he could touch him. The way Peter was lying, Stiles couldn’t see the scars, only the untouched side of his face. He was more terrifying like that, for some reason. It was the scars, Stiles thought. The scars made him seem more human.

“Your heartbeat is soothing,” Peter said mildly.

“My heart is usually beating two hundred times a minute, and that is creepy as hell.”

Peter smirked. “Have you forgotten that I’m a _monster_ , Stiles?”

“You know I’m terrified of you. You don’t have to make me say it.”

But he wasn’t, he realised, with sudden and crystal-clear clarity. Not exactly. Peter could kill him with one finger and that was terrifying, but Peter also hadn’t hurt him and wasn’t going to hurt him, unless it was exactly what Stiles wanted and Stiles couldn’t think of any circumstances under which he’d willingly ask Peter to hurt him.

Peter just smirked again and turned away . He wasn’t going to sleep - Stiles had been sharing his bed for long enough already to know that Peter was a chronic insomniac and wouldn’t fall asleep for hours yet - but it was a clear sign that the conversation was over.

Stiles gave it as long as he could stand before he got out of bed and pulled on some clothes. Peter didn’t question his leaving as Stiles slipped out of the room and headed down to the kitchen; perhaps he assumed that Stiles was just hungry. Which Stiles was, but he had another reason for coming down here too, and he was relieved to see that Allison had arrived before him. She blushed a little when she saw him but didn’t remark on his appearance, which Stiles was very grateful for.

“Here,” he said, looking around quickly before handing over the small brass key he’d taken from the lockbox in Peter’s quarters. Allison was tactful enough not to ask about that either. “That door isn’t guarded. Once you’re outside, there’s a drainage tunnel that will take you down to the gully outside the compound.”

Allison pulled a face. “The smell should put them off a while.” She shook her head. “But if it gets me out of here, I’ll roll around in it. Thank you, Stiles.”

They didn’t have time for idle conversation; just seconds after Allison tucked the key safely away in her clothes a werewolf wandered in and snarled at them to leave. They fled, going their separate ways. Stiles was on the last flight of stairs when he was suddenly jerked back, almost toppling down the stairs in his shock. Only the iron grip on his arm prevented him falling, and although his arm was mostly healed it still hurt.

He was mostly unsurprised to see that it was Til who had seized hold of him.

“Where have you been, sneaking around at this time of night?”

“None of your business.” Stiles futilely tried to pull free but Til wasn’t letting go.

The werewolf leaned in, nostrils flaring. Stiles knew he could smell Peter on him and at one time he might have been embarrassed about that but now he didn’t care.

“He’ll be pissed if you damage his property.”

“Look how brave you are,” Til sneered. His fingers dug in harder, and Stiles had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out. “I should tear your insides out.”

“Peter would kill you,” Stiles managed. Pain was lancing up his arm, radiating across his shoulder. It felt like the tendons and muscles of his arm were being torn apart.

“Not if I kill him first. Then you’re mine.”

He shook Stiles before abruptly releasing him. Stiles stumbled and nearly fell again before he managed to catch himself.

“That’s your plan? That’s your big idea?” Stiles scrambled a few steps up the stairs. It was pointless, he knew; Til could outpace him easily. “You really think you can kill him? He’ll see you coming and he’ll rip your throat out.”

“He’s too busy fucking you,” Til sneered. “He has no idea, and you hate him enough not to warn him.” The werewolf tried for a smile but it looked more like a leer. “Maybe I’ll let you go.”

It was a lie and an obvious one, but it was a lie that Stiles thought he might be able to use. He looked down at the floor, before looking up coyly. 

"Would you let me go?"

It was easy, frighteningly easy. Til fell for Stiles' act hook, line, and sinker.

"Maybe," he said, grinning. "If you do something for me."


	5. Chapter 5

It took them three hours to realise that Allison was missing on the morning the worst blizzard for six months swept in from the north east, and another twenty minutes for them to work up the courage to knock on the door of Peter’s quarters.

Stiles woke up first. Peter never fell asleep before three or four in the morning but once he was asleep he slept more soundly than Stiles ever had and it was still pre-dawn when the first knock came at the door. Stiles eased his way out from under Peter’s encircling arm, and went to answer it, glad - not for the first time - that Peter was happy for him to sleep in t shirt and boxers.

It was the female - Aila. She was one of the few who didn’t completely blank Stiles’ very existence but she still looked uncomfortable to be faced with him. She also looked nervous, which Stiles hadn’t seen before, and he knew what had happened before she’d even said a word.

“I need to speak to him,” she said, meaning Peter.

“What’s wrong?” Peter said from behind Stiles, already out of bed and on his feet.

Alia looked relieved to be addressing him and not Stiles, less relieved with the message she was forced to convey. “The Argent girl is gone,” she said tersely.

“Escaped?”

“Yes. We don’t know how but she must have climbed out of a third floor window.”

Peter didn’t seem angry - Stiles noticed that Aila was watching him very carefully, as if she was afraid he would take it out on her - but his voice was perfectly controlled when he said:

“Send someone out after her. It will be difficult to track her in this weather but not impossible. She can’t have gone far, a teenage girl with no supplies. I want her returned alive.”

Aila nodded.

“She’s probably headed south,” Peter continued. “Argent territory. Try and catch her before she makes it as far as any of their scouting posts.”

Stiles unobtrusively retreated to the bathroom, not wanting to make his glee at Allison’s escape too obvious. He shaved and washed his hair over the sink and wished - not for the first time - that the werewolves could do something about the lack of hot running water.

When he emerged back into the main room, Aila was gone and the door was shut and Peter was sitting on the bed. He looked surprisingly cheerful for someone who had just lost his hostage and his tool for revenge.

“Aren’t you going to go after her?” Stiles asked.

Peter glanced up at him. “Why would I do that?”

Stiles set down his damp towel. “You said it yourself, she’s probably headed for Argent territory.”

“I hope so,” Peter said calmly. “I gave her enough hints as to their location.”

Stiles stared at him, and then his legs suddenly buckled and he started to fall but Peter was already there, a strong arm around his shoulders guiding him to sit on the bed.

“You planned this,” Stiles said numbly. “You wanted her to escape. You didn’t want to kill her.”

Peter, if anything, looked mildly offended. “Why would I want to kill a nineteen year old girl? She’s done nothing wrong besides being born an Argent.”

“So you let her go?”

“Let’s say I encouraged her to take matters into her own hands.” Peter reached forward and flicked Stiles’ nose with his finger. “Your plan was terrible, incidentally. If she’d gone the way you suggested, my sentries would have caught her before she even left the compound.”

“You _knew_?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Let me give you a word of advice, Stiles. When you’re conspiring against me, it’s best not to do it on the roof and in the basement of the same building.”

Stiles looked at the floor. He couldn’t think of anything smart to say in response. “Are you going to kill me now?” he said instead.

“No,” Peter said after a moment’s hesitation. He touched Stiles again, his lips this time. “I like you like this.”

Stiles knew it was stupid and he knew it was irrational but for some reason he felt inexplicably guilty about what had happened with Allison even though logically he understood that he owed Peter nothing and indeed had every reason to betray him. Peter was the enemy, the embodiment of the hopelessness of Stiles’ life, and Stiles had no reason to trust him or care for his feelings.

“But you’re not gonna let me get away with it, right?”

Peter laughed softly. “I think the others will expect to see that I’ve taken my anger out on you, yes.” His fingers trailed across Stiles’ cheek, cupping his jaw. “I think I will fuck you tonight.”

The obscenity sounded oddly shocking on his lips, and Stiles shivered. This was something they hadn’t done; in the six weeks he’d been sharing Peter’s bed Peter had seemed more than happy with Stiles’ mouth and hands. And, to Stiles’ surprise, he hadn’t tied Stiles up or gagged him or done anything that Stiles might have expected, and Stiles still didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended. Of course, because he could never keep his mouth shut, he said:

“Are you going to tie me up?”

Peter raised an eyebrow at him. “Would you like me to? Did you enjoy it last time?”

“Not really.”

Peter laughed, shockingly loud in the stillness of the room. “Then no, I won’t tie you. Although it might be fun watching you trying not to move again. You move in your sleep so much I’ve often thought about tying you up just to keep you still.”

“I do not-” Stiles stopped, and looked away again. This wasn’t what this was supposed to be like. This wasn’t what he needed it to be like. Peter just had the knack of throwing him off balance and off guard and Stiles really needed his head together for what he had to do.

“Why did you let Allison go?” he blurted out.

Peter acknowledged the diversionary tactic with a faint smile but allowed it. “Because I’ve set my trap, and now I need the fly to walk into it.”

“Her family,” Stiles said with dawning realisation. “Her aunt. You want them to come here, so you can kill them.”

“To kill her,” Peter corrected. “Do you know what she did, Stiles? She seduced my nephew, younger than you are now, to worm her way into our den, and she murdered my family.”

“And now you get revenge?”

“Don’t you think that’s fair?” Peter’s voice was light, still, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. “For what she did? Or do you think my family deserved to be burned alive?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, I- I think they were crazy times and people were freaking out because, hey, end of the world and all that, and by the way, werewolves … but your family didn’t deserve to die.”

There was a long silence after he had finished speaking, long enough for Stiles to start getting nervous, before Peter laughed again.

“Laura thinks I’m crazy but I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“Because I get on my knees and suck your cock?” Stiles shot back. He thought he’d gone too far for a second, before Peter smirked and said:

“What can I say? You have a talent.”

“I’ll put it on my CV,” Stiles muttered. “Special skills: survival and cocksucking.”

Peter shook his head. “Let’s not forget your ingenuity. Your escape plan for Allison was quite ingenious, even if it lacked a few small details.”

Stiles frowned. “So, she gets back to her family, tells them that you’re hiding out here, they all head down here. Is that your plan?”

Peter took hold of Stiles’ arm and guided him so that he was lying on his front. “Not exactly. Not all of them will come here. Her brother, for one - Allison’s father - won’t trust what Allison has to say about me. He won’t trust me.”

“You sound like you know him,” Stiles muttered into the duvet as Peter trailed a hand down his spine. Stiles didn’t need to be told what was happening: Peter intended to fuck him sooner rather than later, a punishment of sorts for Stiles plotting against him. He should have been afraid - and he was, in a way, because he’d never done this before and he suspected Peter wasn’t going to go too easy on him, but it felt like he deserved it too.

“Oh, I know Chris Argent,” Peter said softly. His hand stilled at the base of Stiles’ spine. “His sister wasn’t the first Argent to jump into bed with a werewolf.”

Stiles choked back an inappropriate snort of laughter. “Does Allison know?”

“No,” was all Peter said, before he pushed against Stiles’ head in the way that meant he wanted Stiles to be quiet, and Stiles was.

It didn’t hurt in the way Stiles thought it would when Peter fucked him; neither did it go anything like the way he’d once thought his first time might go. It was uncomfortable, awkward and, ultimately, unsatisfying, but nothing more. Peter didn’t seem to be deliberately hurting him or even, for once, absenting himself from Stiles entirely.

Afterwards Stiles drowsed in bed while Peter wrote in a ledger he habitually kept at his side of the bed. Stiles was sore and unaccustomedly empty; he wasn’t sure how he felt about what had happened and if anything he felt numb.

“You can see your father tomorrow, if you like,” Peter said unexpectedly, after an hour or two. “The doctor said he was much better yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbled into his pillow. The thought of walking to his father’s house was not a pleasant one and something of that must have shown on what could be seen of his face because Peter set the ledger aside and leaned over him.

“You’re not hurt,” he said.

Stiles glared at him balefully. “I could be,” he said in what he was well aware was a whine.

Peter shook his head, but he looked amused and more relaxed than Stiles had ever seen him.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” he said, and for once Stiles was happy to do as he was told.

He didn’t have long to wait now.

***

Peter’s voice could be heard clearly over the gale that was blowing through Beacon Hills on that cold, grey morning. The werewolf stood on the steps of the bank to address the assembled population, flanked by Stiles and the oldest werewolf of the group, Andy. There was no trace of the cold fury Stiles had seen earlier as Peter explained that a band of hunters - mercenaries - had swept into Cookstown, five miles to the north, and slaughtered the human inhabitants for the supposed crime of collaborating with werewolves.

“Are they coming here?” the Sheriff asked. He looked paler than Stiles remembered; thinner, too. But alive and upright and that made everything Stiles had done worth it.

Peter smiled. “I hope so,” he said flatly. He raised a hand to quell the murmurs of concern that rippled around the crowd. “I’m not going to promise that you are all perfectly safe,” he said. “But precautions will be taken-“

Stiles tuned out of the rest of it. Most of Peter’s talk was, he knew, purely to keep people calm, because Peter’s focus was on trapping the hunters and getting his revenge on Kate Argent. Who, Peter’s scout had discovered, was leading this band of hunters. Stiles had no idea whether she’d met up with Allison or not, but she was headed for Beacon Hills and it would all be the same in the end.

He shifted uncomfortably. Peter had fucked him before coming out here and he couldn’t help feeling that it was obvious for all to see. The werewolves knew, certainly. His dad kept glancing at him with a concerned expression on his face and every time Stiles had to pretend to be fascinated by the cornices of the building opposite.

“Would you have preferred to have been on your knees?” Peter murmured in his ear as he turned to head back inside. Stiles could feel himself flushing.

“I need to talk to you,” Stiles said once they were inside the building. He nodded meaningfully at Anders, who had followed them inside. “ _Alone_.”

Peter looked at him thoughtfully and then nodded. “My office,” he said.

“We can be overheard here, right?” Stiles said when they got to Peter’s office. He remembered all too well what Peter had said about conspiring in a building filled with werewolves.

Peter shook his head as he sat down at the desk. “No. Not in here.”

There was a question there that Stiles resolved to come back to in the future but he didn’t have time for that now. Instead he reached into his jacket and pulled out the bundle of letters he’d stashed in the inner pocket earlier and placed them on Peter’s desk.

“What are those?”

“Letters.” Stiles spread them out on the table. “Reports, really. To Laura. About you. Kind of. Um, I think he was trying to set you up. Make you look like the bad guy, to your alpha.”

“I see.” Peter looked rattled, although he was trying hard not to show it and Stiles thought that most people wouldn’t have been able to tell. “And how did you get hold of these letters?”

Stiles didn’t mince his words. “Til thinks he’s going to fuck me when you’re dead.”

“I see.” Peter eyed him thoughtfully. “I take it the idea didn’t appeal.”

“Seriously? No.”

Peter smiled a little at that. “I suppose I should be flattered,” he said dryly. He flicked through a few of the letters, frowning as he read, before he looked again to Stiles.

“And you thought you’d bring these to my attention? Why?”

Stiles looked at the floor. “You don’t hurt me,” he said softly. “He did.” He knew Peter would immediately grasp the implication and he also knew just how territorial Peter was.

“I see,” Peter said, very quietly. Stiles didn’t have to look at him to be able to feel the quiet fury radiating off him. “ _Where_ did he touch you?”

“Just here.” Stiles pointed to his arm. “Everything else was just threats, what he wants to do to me. When you’re dead. He thinks he can get some sort of position in the pack, if you die.”

“He could have done,” Peter said. “Do you know what my position in the pack is, Stiles?”

“It’s not exactly something you talk about ever,” Stiles pointed out. “Most of what I know about your pack, Allison told me. She said once that you do the things that Laura shouldn’t have to do.”

Peter huffed a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.” He was silent for a moment, then:

“An alpha can rule by fear, but that’s not the way to a strong pack. A pack that works together.”

Light dawned. “Oh, so you do the killing, right? So Laura doesn't have to be seen doing it? Or maybe she doesn't know?”

“Sometimes,” Peter agreed. Whether Stiles was right or wrong in his deductions, Peter wasn't giving him much to go on. “Laura trusts me.”

“Is she right to?”

Peter smiled, showing his teeth. “Perhaps.” He pushed the letters back into a neat pile and got to his feet. “Go to our quarters and stay there,” he instructed Stiles.

“Where are you going?” But Stiles knew; he didn't need to be told.

Peter didn't tell him.

***

Peter came back three hours later with blood splattered over his face and chest. He didn't say a word to Stiles, pulling him from the bed by his less tender arm before pushing him to his knees. Stiles obediently opened his mouth and held still.

"He won't be a problem for you any more," Peter said as he unfastened his jeans. His fingers toyed with Stiles' hair for a brief moment  and then he was fucking Stiles' mouth rougher than he ever had before, pushing in deeper than he ever had before, and Stiles took it all, accepted it for what it was, and let Peter spoon around him and rub behind his ears as penance afterwards. 

"What does it feel like, to kill someone?" he asked. His voice was shot, but he knew Peter could hear him well enough.

"There's no going back from it," Peter said drowsily. "What do you want me to say? That I enjoy it? As the monster I am?"

Stiles rubbed his cheek against Peter's shoulder. "Do you enjoy it?"

Peter tugged on his hair, just a little. "What can I say, I'm a creature of habit."

"Would you, if you didn't have to?"

That seemed to amuse Peter. "If I didn't have to? If we hadn't been cast into this post-apocalyptic wasteland? If my family hadn't been murdered? If I hadn't been left for dead?"

"Something like that." Stiles tilted his head to look at Peter properly, reaching up to run his fingers over his scarred cheek. "You weren't like this before, right?"

Peter pushed his hand away, not unkindly. "Don't try and redeem me, Stiles," he said, and he sounded tired rather than angry. "Don't look for good in me. A burned out shell of a man like me is beyond redemption."

Stiles opened his mouth to respond to that when someone hammered at the door, yelling for Peter. Other agitated voices could be heard in the distance.

They were out of time.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles didn’t stay to watch the last of the hunters fall. He’d stood on the burial mound just long enough to watch Peter tear Kate Argent’s throat out and then he’d ducked away with only a quick goodbye to Scott and the others in their silent resting place and jogged the rest of the way back to the compound deliberately not thinking about anything he’d seen. He felt numb inside, detached from reality in a way he'd never felt before. 

The streets of the compound were deserted; the houses were dark and, Stiles knew, also deserted. The humans were bunkered down in the storage barn behind the bank, as far from the scene of the confrontation between werewolves and hunters as they could possibly be, and the werewolves who still lived were either guarding the bank or cleaning up the battlefield. Stiles briefly considered popping in to see his dad and let him know he was still alive but he wasn’t ready to face him tonight, not with the reality of what he had done hanging over him.

Anders was guarding the bank when Stiles got back. He acknowledged Stiles with a nod and Stiles, after a brief hesitation, nodded in return before going inside. Stiles was pack now, whether he liked it or not.

Peter returned shortly after one in the morning, still blood-streaked and wolfed-out and in no mood for niceties, which suited Stiles just fine. He bucked and twisted in Peter’s hold while Peter fucked him mercilessly into the sheets, screaming himself hoarse and coming so hard he thought he might have blacked out for a moment or two. When he came back to himself Peter gave him a moment, pulled out, flipped him onto his back, folded him practically in two, and thrust back in before Stiles could protest, settling into a relentless rhythm that Stiles knew he could maintain for a long, long time. Stiles whimpered as he realised Peter wasn’t going to let him off gently tonight.

“It hurts,” he complained, pushing up as much as he could to kiss Peter. Fangs scraped against his lips, not quite breaking the skin. Stiles groaned.

“No, it doesn’t,” Peter said. His mouth tasted of copper. Blood, Stiles realised. He supposed there was something deeply fucked-up about the way his cock began to harden again. “And anyway, you need it.”

Not want. Need. And he was right. Stiles arched into it, needing more. He needed to feel, needed that raw, visceral connection; to be fucked open and taken apart and brought back to life.

“Fuck…” he gasped, as Peter thrust harder.

“That’s the idea,” Peter retorted.

Stiles reached up and ran his hand across the bumps and planes of Peter’s wolfed-out face. It wasn’t like the others, wasn’t quite right. The scar tissue distorted strangely when Peter wolfed out. “Does it feel better?” he asked, very quietly. He knew Peter would understand what he meant.

Peter stilled then, but he was looking at Stiles, in the present, now, when he said:

“No.”

Stiles nodded. “I’m sorry,” he offered.

“Don’t be.” Peter rocked into him again, setting up a slow, steady rhythm this time. “I got what I wanted. You helped me, encouraging Allison to escape and telling her exactly how the Argents could attack the compound.”

“Dude, I was planning to double-cross you and have you and the Argents kill each other. Do you know how much wolfsbane is on that burial mound?”

Peter stared at him for a long, long moment. He didn’t stop fucking him, but he moved a hand to Stiles’ throat and held him there, not choking but a firm pressure all the same.

Stiles lay still, staring back. He wondered what Peter saw in his face, what he heard in Stiles’ heartbeat. Peter could rip his throat out in an instant, and it wasn’t a case of Stiles putting up a fight or not because they both knew who would win.

Peter sighed and shook his head. “Remind me again why I let you live,” he muttered.

“Because you like me,” Stiles said breathlessly. “And because I suck your cock.”

Peter shook his head again but he moved his hand away from Stiles’ throat and settled it instead to rub behind Stiles’ ear.

“That could be it.”

Stiles kissed him again, turning his head this time so that Peter’s fangs sliced his lip and Peter could lick the drops of blood away. His second orgasm was as bright and sharp as the first, but this time Peter followed almost immediately after and the two of them collapsed in a sprawl of bloodied, aching limbs.

Stiles was grateful for Peter’s hand pressing on his chest, anchoring him, possessing him. He felt empty, weightless; as if without Peter’s hold on him he would simply float away. He was aware of Peter watching him closely but it was several minutes before the werewolf huffed a laugh and said:

“What’s going on in that strange little head of yours?”

Stiles shook his head. He couldn't begin to put it into words because if he spoke it out loud then it was true and it couldn’t be taken back, what he’d done, what he was. He was marked now, branded. He’d stepped over a line and even if he had not struck a killing blow he had still been the one to send thirty hunters - thirty humans - to their deaths, however inadvertently.

His dad wouldn't understand, Stiles knew. No one in Beacon Hills would understand. He was cast out. Unclean. Damaged goods. A killer.

_Murderer_.

No one would ever understand, except the man wrapped around him now.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Peter said softly, and Stiles did.

***

Chris Argent didn't look at him with suspicion any more. Now it had been established that Stiles wasn't a werewolf and didn't have any kind of strong connection to the Hale pack that could be useful to the hunters, he'd been firmly relegated to the role of victim and nothing Stiles said to the contrary was going to change that. Stiles had a feeling that at least some of Argent’s acceptance was probably down to whatever Allison had told her father about him.

Stiles had told him a few happy stories about Allison and their time in captivity together. He didn't even have to lie.

Talking about Allison was also a way of avoiding talking about Peter Hale but Argent could only be distracted for so long before he remembered that he was supposed to be grilling Stiles for information. As far as Stiles could tell, not only had the hunters not caught Peter, they had no idea where he was. Argent had men out looking for him but his forces were thin on the ground and Stiles knew he had concerns about another group of hunters coming in from the east. Sooner or later, the hunt would stop altogether.

"You know, Stiles," Argent said conversationally. "I think it's time we got you back to Beacon Hills. I remember your father from my time there; he's a good man. I'm sure he's missing you and can’t wait to have you home."

Stiles nodded. "It would be good to go home," he agreed.

Argent shifted restlessly in his chair. He looked like he was working himself up to another awkward conversation and Stiles braced himself in expectation.

"Stiles, what happened between you and Peter Hale ... none of that was your fault, of course, and there's no reason for anyone else to know about it if you don't want them to."

Stiles was fairly sure that everyone in Beacon Hills knew that Peter had been fucking him but he kept quiet. If Argent wanted to pretend it was some kind of secret then Stiles would play along.

"If you want to tell your father, that's fine,” Argent continued. “Maybe it would help. To talk to him."

"I don't really want to talk to him about it," Stiles said quickly.

Argent nodded. "That's fine. Maybe someone else, someone you trust? When you feel ready. It- it could be helpful."

He was trying to be kind, Stiles realised. In a stilted, awkward, misguided way. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

"Beacon Hills is safe now," Argent went on. "After we were able to clean the place up … well, I've been negotiating with Laura Hale and she's agreed that they have no more interest in the town and she guarantees that they will leave it alone in future."

"What about other packs?" Stiles asked.

"It's a slow job, but we're working on agreements with other packs in the state," Argent said. He seemed surprised that Stiles had even asked the question. "Most packs are open to reason, with the right approach. It’s in all our interests to work together as much as we can. We’ve all lost so much. We’ve all lost family."

Stiles already knew, from one of the other hunters, that Allison’s mother was dead.

"I thought you were a hunter," Stiles said innocently. "Don't you hunt werewolves?"

Now Argent was definitely off-balance. "We have a code," he said slowly. "We don't hunt werewolves unless they are a danger. Unless they've killed humans."

"So how come your sister killed the Hale family? They didn't kill anyone."

Stiles thought he'd gone too far for a moment. Argent's eyes flashed with anger briefly before he got himself back under control.

"Stiles, I know you've been through a very traumatic experience..."

_Spare me_ , Stiles thought. He didn't say it, though.

“Kate is … well, that’s in the past. What happened, happened.”

“And Peter killed her, so you’re equal,” Stiles said helpfully.

Argent gave him a hard look. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

Stiles looked at the ground and tried to appear contrite.

"We'll get you returned to your father. You'll be safe in Beacon Hills," Argent promised as Stiles left. "Beacon Hills will be safe."

It was raining outside the shelter, a light rain that was turning to sleet. It was going to be another cold night and the skies were darkening already. In an hour or two what remained of the daylight would be gone. Stiles walked through the makeshift camp the hunters had set up in a clearing in the woods, skirting the small groups engaged in cleaning their weapons and repairing their kit.

A few of them acknowledged him; the majority ignored him. He was a civilian, collateral damage in their eyes. A victim.

Their eyes didn’t see to his soul.

Stiles kept walking, between the last of the temporary shelters, out of the camp, past the sentries, and into the trees. He didn't look back. When he was sure he was out of sight, he started to run.


End file.
